


After All, I Knew (It Had To Be Something To Do With You)

by keycchan



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst Lite™, Handwavey Injury Care, Hitters Having Feelings, M/M, Painful Feelings, Post - The Rundown Job, Pre - The Low Low Price Job, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: This means he’s another person on Eliot’s list. Another person Eliot has to watch out for. And Eliot — with the conscience bigger than he could ever give himself credit for, who’s been searching for absolution for over a decade without knowing it’s been coursing through his blood all along — will do anything for the people he cares about. If Quinn gets hurt, Eliot gets hurt. If Quinn gets in trouble, Eliot gets in trouble. And when Quinn gets hurt and in trouble, it’s suddenly not just his problem anymore — it’s Eliot’s, too, and Quinn knows down to the barest bones of his soul that Eliot would fight god and walk backwards into hell for Quinn. To keep Quinn safe.And that, more than anything since he started his career as a hitter, is what scares the shit out of Quinn the most.Or: Quinn cares about Eliot, and Eliot cares about Quinn, and Quinn's counting the days until this gets them killed.





	After All, I Knew (It Had To Be Something To Do With You)

**Author's Note:**

> canon divergence context: this fic deviates from canon by having quinn basically kind of tag along after the last dam job. not part of the team, but always within proximity and easy to reach when needed. helps eliot and the leverage crew through s5.
> 
> takes place sometime after the rundown job, but before the low low price job.

Eliot Spencer has changed, these last few years.

Though exactly _what_ those changes are — that depends on who you ask. General consensus on the rumour mill seems to be fifty-fifty; loads of people whispering, gossiping. Saying _Spencer’s lost his touch_ , that _Moreau’s guard hound’s turned into a lapdog_. That _Eliot’s gone soft_.

On the other hand, though, the fact that they have to whisper it should speak volumes about just how much they actually believe it. Kind of like thinking you’re safe from the boogeyman under the bed, but still tuck your feet under the blanket. That sort of thing.

But, see. That’s the thing. Everyone’s talking about Spencer these days — how he’s changed, how he’s lost his knack, how he’s gone out of the game, but none of them actually _know_ him. They only know the man from the stories, the man from the rumours that whisper like Spencer’s some sort of wraith. The man behind the stories? Not so much. Which is — okay. It’s fair. More than fair. Half the time these people only get to see Spencer’s face for a half beat before they get their own pummelled in and knocked unconscious. Which then feeds to the rumours of both weakness and glory both, and it just becomes some massive feedback cycle of neverending gasps and bullshit and, yeah, it gets annoying, okay?

Kind of like the handcuffs around Quinn’s wrists, actually. Digging into his skin, worrying at the bones, rubbing his flesh raw and red. The way he’s been practically tied to the iron chair doesn’t help. Neither does the head wound he’s got, now that he thinks about it.

Huh. Maybe that’s why he’s thinking so much about Eliot Spencer.

Well. He can spend his last moments however he feels like. That’s more than justified, Quinn thinks. And sure, every moment in a hitter’s life technically classifies as a last moment, because knowing someone could get the drop on you at any second is as normal as breathing for people like him, but hey. Quinn’s never pretended to be a particularly smart man, just smart enough. And he’s certainly never pretended to be anything less than selfish and self indulgent to a fault. If the Irish that have him captive in this dead-abandoned warehouse by the docks don’t kill him by morning, he can re-think his life priorities then.

It’s a shame that his employer well and truly fucked him over for this job. There’s no other way to explain how Quinn’s exit got thwarted except unless his own employer squealed. Selling his own agent out so he can scram to freedom and hide under rocks? A smart move, in a way, but Quinn’s got a thing or two to teach the man, assuming he comes out of here alive. Which is a big assumption. Which was probably what his employer was counting on.

Christ on _skates_ , he’s definitely got some sort of concussion. That’s going to make the interrogation later super fun, he bets. The Irish can get real creative there, and if Quinn’s too out of it to answer their questions the way they want, well.  Quinn just hopes he’ll pass out or die sooner than later. Doesn’t really have much else to bet on — he came in alone, got captured alone, all devices of communications got ripped off him, he’s well and truly bound and concussed to boot, and there’s no one waiting on the outside for him. No one who’ll wonder why he hasn’t come home. No one who’ll notice he’s missing.

He’s going to die bruised and battered and completely alone and — honestly? He’s been kind of waiting for this day to happen, so he’s already ready to kick back and relax until he kicks the bucket. He’s made his peace.

Or. That’s what he _would_ have thought. It’s how used to think, anyway. Back before he was called into a job that involved dams and underground caves. Back before he started getting called in to help with the most ridiculous of jobs, from hockey to truffles to cheerleaders to goddamn _bioterrorist plots,_ and before he started dropping anything he was doing to help with exactly any of that.  Back before striking blue eyes, and knowing smiles, and muscles coiled with enough strength to punch down a god.

Back before Eliot Spencer: the man who’s _just_ kicked down the warehouse doors in an unholy rage to run, like a goddamn superhero, to get to Quinn. Flannel shirt flying behind him just like a cape.

_There goes Quinn’s peace._

“Quinn!” Spencer shouts, voice rough and growling in a way that covers over the sick hollowness in Quinn’s stomach with something warmer, almost hot, almost visceral. “Quinn, you better be awake —“

“This is why people think you’re a myth. You know that, right?” Quinn says, slurs, as Eliot finally reaches him with a mouth smeared with blood, dropping immediately to his knees (and god, what a pretty picture.)

Even here in the almost pitch dim of the warehouse, Eliot’s eyes are striking in what little light they have when they glare up at him. “You’re fucking delirious,” Eliot growls, even though his hands don’t stop moving to unlatch Quinn from the chair, “C’mon, _move_ already, before they come back!”

 _You shouldn’t’ve come here,_ he wants to say. _You know we can’t outrun ‘em, right?_ But hell if anyone can say that to Eliot Spencer. It’d probably only make the guy pissier. The man’s the only person Quinn knows who could probably bend bullets around him through sheer force of will, or at least it seems that way half the time. Even when they’re running through the gunfire — Quinn’s arm drawn across Eliot’s broad shoulders, blood trickling down his neck and staining both their shirts — Eliot gets fucking shot, _three times_ , and somehow still manages to keep running. Still manages to keep hauling Quinn and hauling ass even though Quinn feels every shockwave each bullet sends into Eliot, every grunt and growl of pain, _Eliot,_ who’s using himself as an actual goddamn human meat shield for _Quinn_.

Quinn swallows down the sick, ugly taste in his mouth and the pain radiating from his chest down, and uses it to fuel them both forwards.

 

* * *

 

 

The Irish are being flooded with red and blue lights by the time Quinn and Eliot somehow make it back to the hotel room. Quinn’s still too dazed to pick up on too many of the details — something about an anonymous tip off to the cops, from what he could pick up on the radio at their ‘doctor’s office. A part of him was willing to bet that that was the job of one Alec Hardison — Eliot Spencer hasn’t been working alone in years, anyway.

The other half was just too busy willing himself to stay upright and conscious on the taxi ride home.

He doesn’t know how he even makes it up the stairs, let alone have the cognitive function to pop open the door and let Eliot inside. He does, though. He does, and manages to shut and lock the door, and turns just in time to see Eliot collapse to sit on the bed. Hair a mess, face sweaty and exhausted, flannel shirt buttoned up so the cab driver wouldn’t ask any questions about the bloodied bulletholes in the tight white tee underneath.

Quinn watches all of this, and the way his chest involuntarily tightens up is enough to wake him up proper. He walks straight towards the bathroom, where his on-the-go medkit’s sitting plain on the sink for just these sort of reasons. Painkillers go in one hand; a wet and wrung washcloth goes in his other, and then he makes his way back to the bed.

Eliot growls when Quinn throws the bottle of pills at him — _good, if the man’s got the strength to be pissed off he’ll be fine_ — but pops the pills he needs without word. Quinn doesn’t say anything else either, while he drags a chair from the provided desk and moves to sit right across from Eliot. The only sound is just the ceiling fan spinning, and the occasional hushed traffic that passes by at four in the fucking morning.

Quinn opens up Eliot’s shirt with as much efficiency as he can short of ripping the thing right off, ignoring the pained sounds Eliot makes when he has to force him to lift his arms to take off his shirt. As he expected, there’s still blood. Everywhere. None of it running anymore — _thank fuck_ — but whatever did manage to escape Eliot’s body is now smeared across wherever he’d been hit, dried copper spatters across the meat of his muscles and the deceptively thin layer of soft above it. It’s not something to care much over in any case; the kind of doctors people like them go to in situations like these don’t care much for making sure you’re clean. They make their cash by making sure you don’t die, performing whatever’s needed to make sure you don’t bleed out or get infected and then sending you on your way. Asking questions, or for a wipedown, will only get glares.

Quinn’s been through them what feels like a thousand times. And looking at Eliot’s body — smattered with scars, old wounds, bullet fragments that were left inside — it looks like he’s been through it a million. The wounds earlier — two clean shots through his side ( _in and out and without nicking any organs_ ) and one graze past his upper arm — are cleaned, bandaged, sterile, but there’s still plenty of dried blood where it’s dripped or gotten smeared by his clothes. So that’s where Quinn starts.

He’s gentle but firm, a hand on Eliot’s hardened shoulder and the other wiping away the blood, letting the washcloth come back more and more copper with every pass. Eliot’s eyes are closed, hair a curtain, but he’s breathing slow, steady. Quinn doesn’t think about how close Eliot’s come, _again_ , to never breathing again. Quinn doesn’t think about how those two bullets could’ve moved a couple of inches to the left and turned Eliot’s insides into jelly. Quinn doesn’t think about how that bullet graze could’ve easily gone through his arm instead to meet with Eliot’s subclavian artery. Quinn just wipes, and wipes, and remembers to breathe himself.

It’s only after he’s done that he finally opens his mouth. He wants to say, _you didn’t have to come in after me._ He wants to say, _you could’ve waited another hour, could’ve called for backup._ He wants to say, _if you die, I’ll kill you myself_.

Instead, he says, “How did you find me?”

Eliot’s blue eyes finally open. Quinn pretends his chest doesn’t go terrifyingly soft at the sight. “Had a weird feeling when you said you had a job near the docks.  Got Hardison to do some research, found out about the drug smuggling and one Mr Anderson sniffing around — your boss, I’m guessin’.”

“Ah,” Quinn says, smirking tired, “So you were stalking me. Don’t trust me, Eliot?”

Eliot raises a sardonic brow. “You really want me to answer that, Quinn? I wasn’t even gonna step in — I just kept tabs on him in case. Only reason I jumped to the docks is ‘cause Hardison got a notification saying Anderson’s suddenly grabbed a 2 AM flight to Belgium, and Nate agreed with me. Said something was fishy. Came running soon as I heard.”

 _Belgium. Noted._ Quinn keeps wiping at Eliot’s chest, even though there’s nothing left to wipe. It keeps his eyes off of Eliot’s, at least. “I’ve been in worse situations, El. You and me both. I would’ve found a way out eventually.”

“With three dozen armed guards patrolling the area and your phone and shoe transmitter dumped into the harbour?”

“We’ve been in warzones, Eliot. Trust me when I say there’s been w—“

Eliot growls, before suddenly just — grabbing Quinn’s hand. The one holding the cloth.

He’s not holding it hard; Quinn can take his hand back if he wants to, can just as easy reel it in and clock Eliot in the jaw if he wants. But Eliot _knows_ that. Knows that Quinn knows that. And the feeling of Eliot’s hand — so fucking warm, calloused and roughened, against his own, well. Quinn doesn’t move his hand. At all. And when he finally looks up to meet Eliot’s own eyes, he finds that he can’t — doesn’t want to — move his body either.

“You _know_ I trust you, Quinn. Wouldn’t’ve called you up all those times otherwise, with Dubenich or Pete Rising or — hell, man, I called you in for _Udall_. I let you meet _Toby_.” Eliot says, voice low and rough and so fucking _sincere_ that Quinn, physically, feels his heart clench. “… No one’s ever gonna know what kinda lives we lead except for people like us. And most of us — we’re not good people. But I trust you, Quinn. You’re a sneeze away from being an honorary part of our team, you know that? Sophie trusts you. Nate trusts you. Hardison trusts you. _Parker_ trusts you. That’s an accomplishment less than six other people have.”

Quinn’s mouth feels dry, his throat suddenly parched. Something in his chest threatening to burst, spill out, break his ribs on their way out to pool on the floor. Eliot’s eyes are so blue, so _piercing_ , and it shouldn’t be fair for a thief like him to have eyes this honest.

“I could’ve made it out, Eliot.” Quinn says, and he hates how it sounds like bullshit even to himself. “You know that.”

“ _Of course I know that_ , y’moron. I’m not sayin’ you can’t. I’m just —“ and there’s a harsh noise, there, that makes Quinn smile without even thinking about it, “— Fuck, you’re not in this alone anymore, okay? You don’t have to be if you don’t wanna be. You don’t gotta shrug shit off because you don’t got anyone to help you pick it up after. You’ve got us, now, okay, you’ve got — you’ve got _me_.”

_I’m your Huckleberry._

The words slam into Quinn’s mind with the force of a speeding truck. He remembers, abruptly, himself telling that to Eliot not even a year ago. It hits him, and it winds him, and the last of his stubbornness finally dissolves, caving in, like he always does around Eliot Spencer.

This isn’t the first time he’s kissed Eliot, but fuck, does it never get old. Eliot’s mouth is unfairly soft against his own, chapped lips and the taste of blood, and when he breathes out and Quinn breathes in he feels like a little of his soul’s been put to ease. The lightest of teeth, the slow press of tongues. Nothing more than the desire to just — be together. Every fragile, shaky inhale committed to memory. That thing in Quinn’s chest flooding through him, like it does every single time they do this, something painfully warm and tender and _vulnerable_ , slipping through the cracks of his bones and pooling ‘round their feet.

They don’t even part, when they part. Their mouths slip away but then Eliot’s forehead is coming to meet Quinn’s own, all gentle, all warm. Sincere enough that a part of Quinn wants to get up and run, take the next plane out, follow Anderson out to Belgium and feed him his own teeth to avoid thinking about any of this. A year ago, and Quinn would’ve laughed at himself now — he’s always been alone, was happy to be alone, flying by the seat of his pants and devil-may-care until Eliot came along. He was happy to just be another up-and-coming hitter, known for blood more than personality, until he’d gotten to know the man behind the myths and the legends.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Quinn’s one of those small, small few who actually know Eliot. Who’s talked to him, laughed with him, fought with him and lived to grab a beer with him. Who knows as far as how good Eliot cooks for his friends, who knows how good Eliot’s mouth is against his skin. Who can look at the rumour mills and all the talk of this larger-than-life man, the hitter of all hitters, calling him soft and sentimental and say _yes._

 _Yes, it’s all true_.

Eliot Spencer’s gone soft. Eliot Spencer’s sentimental, doesn’t work alone anymore, doesn’t have the knack for killing anymore — Eliot Spencer _cares_.

But that’s where the truth of the assumptions stop. Because that’s where the people scoff, laugh, mock — they look down on him, but because Quinn knows Eliot, Quinn knows this: between a man with nothing to lose and a man with everything to save, it really does depend on the man. And Eliot Spencer softening? Giving a shit? That’s _exactly_ what makes him even more dangerous than he’s ever been before.

The man’s made himself a legend just by existing. The mythos of Eliot Spencer, growing with every enemy defeated and every obstacle pounded to dust, until his monolith of a reputation stretches a shadow a mile long. And sure, there are worse people out there. People more dangerous than Spencer could ever be. There’s a reason that people in Quinn’s line of work don’t go anywhere near those Continental hotels scattered across every major city in the world, where the people inside are stained with death down to their marrow and their hands only know the trade of blood and coin.

But the fact is this — the Eliot Spencer of legend and myth isn’t the one to be scared of. It’s the Eliot that _gives a shit_ that should send people running.

Because when Eliot cares, he puts everything on the line. When Eliot cares, he’ll do anything to protect what needs protecting. When Eliot _cares_ , he’s willing to go through hell and back, over and over and over until he does what needs to be done to protect his and his own. He’ll stop at nothing for the people he cares about. Maybe he doesn’t kill anymore, sure — but there worse ways to hurt someone than death. Eliot Spencer could make dying feel like a mercy. Quinn’s sure there’s a healthy list of previous enemies who could testify to it, if it weren’t for whatever’s left of their pride.

And Quinn’s seen it all in action. He’s seen Eliot take beatdowns that could _kill_ a lesser man just to protect Sophie. He’s seen Eliot defend a van against a team of armed mobsters just to make sure Hardison’s safe inside. He’s singlehandedly scaled buildings and taken on biohazard securities just to give Parker protection. He’s brought down gang members, incapacitated hundreds of people in varying uniforms, killed a whole _warehouse_ of some of the best killers Damien Moreau could buy, just to keep Nate safe.

And, well. He’s just taken on a whole dock of armed and trained Irish drug smugglers and shielded Quinn with his own body, just to get Quinn out alive.

Quinn can’t say he hates it. He fucking wishes he did — it’d make his job, his _life_ , a hell of a lot easier — but he doesn’t. He’s been alone for so long, content to be. So used to going through life on the assumption that every other second, something might go wrong and end up with his heart stopped and his life ended. It was fine, he’d chosen that path, was perfectly okay with working alone and dying alone —

But then Eliot came in and now he suddenly can barely remember what it’s like to be on his own. Now when he goes on a job and needs backup, there always _is_ one, just a phone call away. When he goes out and comes back with more blood outside his body than in, there’s always someone waiting with bandages and antiseptic and a warm body to accompany him ‘til the pain subsides. Fuck — he’s started to get _used_ to coming home to an apartment that’s not his own these days, with dinner and beer and a game on TV waiting.

It’s… nice, being cared for. Nice to have someone in his corner, watching his back, walking by his side. It’s nice, and it’s _scary as shit_ , and if it weren’t for how Eliot looks at him sometimes, _all_ the time — with warmth in his eyes, a smile and laugh so honest that Quinn wants to turn himself into the cops just to be worthy of them, trust and need and a word that Quinn doesn’t dare use yet — he would’ve bailed long ago. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s one of the only people in the world to know what Eliot’s been through, he would’ve already skipped town.

If Eliot didn’t want Quinn as much as Quinn wants Eliot, he would’ve been gone yesterday.

Because see. Here’s the thing the rumour mills _don’t_ know: Quinn cares _back_. He cares about Eliot fucking Spencer more than he cares about anyone else, and he’s starting to care for Eliot’s motley crew-slash-family, and Quinn knows that this can lead to nothing except heartbreak and pain later on.

For himself? Of course. But he’s prepared for that — he’s a big boy now, he can make his own choices, and he’s walked away from enough pain and regret in his life that anything better just comes as an unexpected bonus. But caring for Eliot and having Eliot care _back_?

That just means he’s another person on Eliot’s list. Another person Eliot has to watch out for. And Eliot — with the conscience bigger than he could ever give himself credit for, who’s been searching for absolution for over a decade without knowing it’s been coursing through his blood all along — will do _anything_ for the people he cares about. If Quinn gets hurt, Eliot gets hurt. If Quinn gets in trouble, Eliot gets in trouble. And when Quinn gets hurt and in trouble, it’s suddenly not just his problem anymore — it’s Eliot’s, too, and Quinn knows down to the barest bones of his soul that Eliot would fight god and walk backwards into hell for Quinn. To keep Quinn _safe_.

And that, more than anything since he started his career as a hitter, is what scares the shit out of Quinn the most.

A heart that big only means a wider target for people to aim at. And one day Eliot won’t get so lucky. One day that bullet will move just those few inches in, or someone with a knife or a bat or a car will catch Eliot by surprise. And for all Quinn wants to believe in those rumours that make Eliot seem like a goddamn demigod who’ll always, always get up — it’s just not realistic. One day someone’s gonna get the drop on Eliot Spencer, and it’ll be because Eliot cares too fucking much. One day Eliot Spencer will _die_ , and Quinn will be left with a guilt that could extinguish the sun and all the incomplete pieces that Eliot will have left behind.

Any day now. Any day. Every time Eliot smiles at him like Quinn’s painted the sunset, Quinn only sees a ticking clock counting down. Every second Eliot bickers with him, Quinn only thinks about remembering the cadence and growl of his voice. Every time they fall into bed together, Quinn’s memorizing every sensation, committing it to memory — the shape of Eliot’s muscles, the ridges of his scars, the soft of his hair, the way his hand feels draped on Quinn’s waist or the way his chest rises and falls with every breath.

If he really cared, Quinn thinks, he should’ve already gone. If he really cared about Eliot’s life and wellbeing, he would be staying back, hidden in the shadows. Taking up jobs in close proximity to keep an eye on him and his family, and nothing more. He’ll make himself one less weapon to hit Eliot with. He’ll make sure Eliot has less factors to key in when he wakes up every morning to make sure he and his team come out alive. If Quinn really cared, he thinks, he’d have already been gone, and it doesn’t matter if he hurts coming out. A heartbreak of lost potential would be much easier to stomach than going out on a job someday and finding Eliot’s blue eyes glassed over, body on the floor, pulse stopped and fingers curling in rigor mortis. The thought of it alone makes Quinn’s stomach hollow and curdle, sick and cold.

But here, sitting in the dim light of their hotel room at almost five in the morning, foreheads pressed together, the dim streetlight flickering on Eliot’s lashes, his cheeks, breathing each other in, Eliot’s hand curled around his own that’s pressed right over Eliot’s heart and counting every beat —

Quinn’s already here. There’s nothing he can do about it — nothing he wants more than to stay, right here, with this stupid, brilliant, absolute _motherfucker_ who’s both liberated a whole country and makes the best honey whiskey cupcakes mankind will likely ever see. There’s a whole lot of shit for Quinn to unpack — coming to terms with what exactly these feelings mean, with what this spells for himself and Eliot and their future (and _fuck_ , he hasn’t thought of a _future_ in _years_ , nothing beyond the next job and the next paycheck and _when did this happen_?) And how he’ll deal with the fallout when things inevitably go to shit, but.

He wants to be around to figure it out. And he wants Eliot to be around too, because he sure as shit ain’t gonna unpack any of it alone. And this, the most important thing is: Eliot wants _him_ to stick around, too. He can’t leave now. He _can’t_.

One day, this is going to kill them both. Quinn knows it — and he has a small, niggling feeling that Eliot knows it too. Getting involved with each other’s going to make them even easier to destroy. It’s just a fact.

But Quinn never could say no to Eliot. And if Eliot’s going to spend what’s left of his borrowed time with Quinn, if he’s _making that choice_ , being every kind of selfish he could never be around anyone else, could never let himself be around anyone else — well.

Quinn’s going to savour as much of this — of _Eliot_ , of being cared for by Eliot, of taking _care_ of Eliot because no one ever could before — as he can, before the debts ring due.

**Author's Note:**

> it only took me some many years of being late for me to write for this fandom........ and of course i pick one of the tiniest obscure ships that only show up for like two episodes max. trés me. anyway i wrote this to have SOMETHING up in time for the angst april/august i'm doing with my dear friend [waggs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hornswaggler)
> 
> the tropes used in this one is: thwarted escape (more referenced to than about, but let me have this ok)
> 
> anyway i know this is a little ooc, i typically imagine quinn to be a bit more devil-may-care than this, but this fic is about having Feelings and so Feelings they will get ! it's meant to be feelsy, i suppose. pardon any mistakes - this hasn't been beta read, so while the characters and series aren't mine, all the mistakes in this fic are. fic title comes from "Kryptonite" by Three Doors Down.
> 
> kudos and comments are much loved and appreciated and will help me see just how many of you grifters are still lurking around. say hi to me on [tumblr!](keycchan.tumblr.com)


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